


Birthday

by Dukeofnachos



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Gen, No Spoilers, Short One Shot, Typical Night Vale Weirdness, i'm not caught up enough for that, tbh the working title for this was happy birthday onion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 17:14:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4754561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dukeofnachos/pseuds/Dukeofnachos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The birth of one Cecil Gershwin Palmer was both unique and unremarkable, as most births are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> I was trying to catch up on Night Vale (and I'm still a few months behind), when suddenly, my intuition and my wisdom grew, and then I knew...  
> Wait, no. What I meant was, I wrote a thing because as I caught up I got some headcanons about Cecil.

Cecil’s first words define his entire life. Well, not just define. They are his entire life. They create his life. He comes into existence with them. Cecil does not enter this world that most people do; screaming and covered in fluids. He talks himself into being. It’s not certain where they come from at first. But suddenly in the middle of Mrs. Palmer’s living room, there is a child’s voice talking about how he would really like to build a tree-house, and their backyard would be great for one despite it’s lack of trees and abundance of tiny carnivorous deer. The deer were more of nuisance than an actual danger. Sure, any bite from them would feel very cold and emit a strange orange gas, but they were the size of squirrels. And as the child’s voice explained this, a child’s mouth appeared. And then a child’s lungs and esophagus. Then lips. Then clothes. Then skin. Then bones and blood and organs began to fill his little body until he was an entire 6-year-old, sitting on the carpet in his little sweater vest and debating whether he could balance a tree-house on the tiny deer.

Cecil continued to talk on into the night about anything and everything that came to mind. There were several points where he simply talked about having nothing to talk about, and then he talked about that too. He kept talking to no one at all until Mrs. Palmer woke up and found him leaning against the couch, still chattering on. Upon spotting him, she made a noise more suited to a dying pterodactyl than a semi-healthy 110 pound woman.

“Good morning, mom.” He said nonchalantly, as if this were something he said every day. And then he continued talking to the air as if there were someone there listening to him. Mrs. Palmer blinked at him. She stared at him for a long time. An uncomfortable amount of time. An absolutely unbearable amount of time. A truly long stretch of seconds, if you believed in things like time, and during that, Cecil barely . She looked over this boy, who had eyes like hers, and hair like hers, but a smile like that of a man she hadn’t seen in years. The boy had that man’s smile and his nose and his shark-like teeth. The sight of the boy reminded her of her often forgotten son who had recently taken to wearing his late father’s jacket.

She blinked at him once more and then looked over at the clock, which hung from the ceiling by a shoestring, as was typical for clocks. Upon comprehending the numbers carved in a ghostly blue by a shaky hand, she groaned. It was much too early for either of them to be up.

“Cecil,” Mrs. Palmer croaked tiredly. “Go to bed.”

“Okay, mom.” Cecil agreed, and then he stumbled to his bedroom, which had appeared between Mrs. Palmer’s room and her oldest son’s sometime during the night.


End file.
